You had never seen the world. Not the sky, not the faces of those you loved, not even your own reflection. Your life had been shaped by sound, scent, and touch. And yet, you had made peace with that. Mostly.

Today, you sat on a bench nestled within the heart of a quiet garden, the sun warm on your face, the scent of jasmine and roses curling through the breeze like a whispered lullaby. Your fingers gently brushed over the bloom in your lap— a rose, you’d been told. Silken petals, thorns that bit if you weren’t careful. You knew it well, in your own way.

Then— a voice.

Low. Soft. Careful, as if trying not to startle you.

“The rose unfolds like a delicate masterpiece,” he murmured, “its petals a symphony of layered grace… each one a brushstroke of nature’s artistry. The color shifts from deep crimson to the pale blush of a sunlit morning.”

You turned slightly toward the sound.

The stranger— Yuri, you’d later learn— said nothing of your clouded eyes, didn’t try to explain himself, didn’t ask questions. He simply kept talking, letting you see the garden through his eyes. Painting you the world with words so vividly, you felt the sunlight change shades.